Well, I'm back everyone! I'm very sorry for the extended hiatus. The story is a long and boring one, but it really just comes down to laziness. I got lazy and abandoned something I loved doing. I apologize profusely for leaving so abruptly and for not letting everyone know what was going on. I hope most of you can forgive me. To properly apologize, I've got Chapter 4, totally complete! Parts A and B are both here, so its a double whammy this time! As always, I thouroughly enjoy comments and criticisms. In addition, if you'd like to chat with me, my AIM name is st00pid13 (with zeroes, not O's). Enjoy!
Life in the Mists
Chapter 4
The mists crawled.
Little of Franklin Square remained recognizable. The 19th century houses and "mansions" that had been the pride of the neighborhood now stood as rotting corpses, if they even stood at all. The Royal Theatre's retro sign was rusted and mired, making the few letters that remained on it barely intelligible. Three of the four glass poster casings mounted on the outside wall were shattered. The fourth's soot-covered surface showed a poster advertising a Ray Charles tribute show. A sign mounted just below the ticket booth read in bold, exaggerated cursive "THE SHOW MUST GO ON!". No shows went on at the Royal Theatre anymore.
And the mists crawled.
St. Martin's, built before the concept of aliens or post-apocalyptic scenery had even entered the human mind, still stood on the west side. It would not stand much longer. Years ago, before the war had ended (though at that point it was clearly over) but after the mists had first wrapped their incorporeal fingers around Baltimore's throat, Franklin Square was one of the first places to see The Shelling. Franklin Square wasn't as busy as it once had been in those days; the mists grab people's hearts and minds. The shell whistled as it came, but before anyone realized what it was, the damage was done. It tore through the church steeple, shattering the spire's foundations. As the steeple came down on the church's front lawn, the metallic poison arrow buried itself in the center of the sanctuary. People screamed, the church itself moaned, and the many waddling, wriggling poisons wormed their way out of the shell.
And the mists crawled.
The only green left in Franklin Square Park was the stain of that poison. The grass had either died or burned. Many of the trees had fallen, the playground was now twisted and brown with rust, and the ground was scorched. Beyond, row upon row of collapsed 19th century houses lay silently, killed of a burning, searing, insatiable disease. Franklin Square had burned. But that devouring cancer had long worn itself out, leaving one less dynamic, but just as deadly. The fire had run its course.
But the mists still crawled.
In the street, among the charred remains of seared wood and ash lay a book. It was not extraordinary. The cover was of leather, and there was a brown strip of cloth hanging from the edge, presumably to serve as a bookmark. It might have been mistaken for a Bible had its not cover been bare and its pages not made of thick, rough paper. Crimson stains surrounded the book's final resting place and, though it could not be seen, blood had been absorbed into the leather itself. And then Franklin Square received something it had not experienced for a very long time: sound. Footsteps echoed through the scorched park, lonely theatre and wounded church. The footsteps were clear and sharp; they were the sounds of crisp dress shoes. They did not echo from far away and draw closer. They simply began within the square, moved towards the modest tome, and stopped.
More dynamic sounds erupted as an old leather medical bag was dropped to the concrete, its contents complaining slightly as they readjusted themselves to suit gravity. An old, yet still vibrant hand picked up the book and raised it to the chest-level of a felt trench coat. Another hand brushed ash and dust from it and opened the leather cover. As hidden eyes behind dark glasses read the words "This journal belongs to Paul Calwell", the lips below them slowly curled upward into a grin.
But even as they did, the mists crawled.
"April 23rd"
"So Carl says I should start writing down my thoughts. He says it'll help me 'cope with what I'm going through'. If I hadn't known Carl ever since I was so rudely expelled from the comfort of my mother's womb, I would have said he was one of those touchy-feely pansy men. The fact that he took great care to show more concern on his face than he did when he thought I was dying from a bullet wound leads me to believe he had ulterior motives. It might also be that he blurted it out and shoved this into my hands just as that cute blonde he has been so interested in walked by. Under normal circumstances I would have told him to bite me, but I can respect a man's half-baked schemes to win the heart of a woman. So I mumbled off some thanks for his concern and trudged off. Though I'll never admit it, there might actually be something to what he said. I have far too much time left to pondering when the next attack will be than I'd like. Susannah (an eight-year old who's parents were killed after the Shelling first began), however, thought it was quite amusing. She leaned over my shoulder and stared into this with her beautiful blues as I first began writing, but after the first few sentences she lost interest. She seems to be the only one I can really take joy in. Her innocence and simple, care-free nature has been a breath of fresh air for me over this past month of desolation.
"Life as a teenager here isn't easy. I'm too old to be worried over and taken care of by the adults and too young to really do anything important, so I get stuck with the **** jobs: namely cleaning, scrubbing, barnacle-scraping and corpse-carrying. The last one is particularly upsetting. The one upside is that everyone seems to be warming up to me now. Those unwelcome stares and almost fearful glances were really getting annoying. I've never been one to squirm at the sight of a naked body, but dragging some of those maggot-infested bodies in their birthday suits all over Union Square tends to get..."
The wrinkled fingers flipped past the first page and searched, coming eventually to rest on a date about a month later.
"May 18th"
"I am a murderer."
"I have lost count of the zombies that have fallen to my hand. I think its around a dozen. I've shot them, beat them, cut them and burned them. I am not ashamed of this. That is only survival; it is just another cycle in that never-ending quest for perfection known as natural selection. But what I have done this day was not survival. I did not do it because I had to. I did it because I wanted to. Today I have killed a living, breathing, thinking human being. There was nothing fair about it: he had no chance to resist. It was not noble or necessary. And I am not ashamed of this, either. Perhaps it is strange (and not very smart) to be writing such things in a journal anyone might read. At this point, I don't care. I think there's little anyone would do to me now. So for better or for worse, this is my silent confession."
"It started six days ago. May 12th. That was the day Marson wandered out of those god-forsaken mists like a demon out of hell. He certainly looked like a demon to me. I was scared of Marson from the moment I saw him; hate developed afterwards. As Marson stumbled towards the Compound (a name George thought up for the glorified slum we're holed up in), I couldn't help feeling a twinge of pity. His clothes were torn everywhere. Dust and soot were mired into every pore on his skin, and he was limping from a leg that had been shredded to the bone. It was a miracle (for him) that he'd found us. He wouldn't have lasted much more than a day if he hadn't. My heart aches every time I realize how close he came to dying and leaving us in peace before he ever saw us."
"But he did find us and we in our ignorance took him in. We were so excited to see someone who had actually survived the Shelling that he was half-way through the meal we gave him before anyone noticed the dilapidated hand-cuffs dangling from his wrist. Carl was the one that noticed. I'll give this to Marson: he knew how to lie. He told us he'd been nailed for embezzlement. His act was almost perfect. There was only one flaw in his seamless performance of deception: the eyes. He had the eyes of a killer. I know because I now see through the same eyes; its cold blood that runs through my veins. Still, we all bought it. We wanted to, desperately needed to believe that we were in the company of good people.
"And we came to believe in the last months that he was a good person. I must admit (much to my current disgust) that even I began to have a fondness for him. In his own way, he was not so very much unlike me. He had a dry, scathing sense of humor. He had a flair for art (something I no longer have the luxury of), and a charisma palpable to all ages, even to Susannah. Especially to Susannah. Hollywood used to like to portray that children could more easily detect evil than adults. The truth is they're more vulnerable to it than anyone else. She loved him. And, before I had a better reason, I hated him just a little for that. She'd found a better companion, leaving me to my corpse dragging and blood-stain scrubbing."
"Then there came the day when Silas found her mutilated body half a mile from the Compound. I remember it was Silas because I had been there sharpening my knife for an afternoon of barnacle-gutting when he had stumbled into sight, wide-eyed and in the middle of an anxiety attack. Funny how fate works. I never did get around to the barnacles that day, but it turned out I needed the knife sharp all the same. Silas had promptly sat down on a pile of rubble just outside the compound. I hadn't been the first to see him. Mary had tended to him, trying to calm him down as best she could. Mitch had called the rest out. By the time Silas was in any condition to talk, half the Compound had been around him murmuring in concerned voices. Marson wandered in from the ruins just as he began. I didn’t think much of it at first."
"I was..." Silas attempted to begin. "Susannah...she-", he tried again, and promptly vomited. It was a tedious half-hour before we could get the story out of him (most of it in stuttered bits and pieces), and once we did we understood why it had been so difficult for him to articulate it. Susannah was dead. She had been torn to shreds by a zombie. When I had first heard it, I had simply collapsed on the ground. I didn't/couldn't believe it. Again, that might have been the end of it, but I had to be sure. I had to see it to be sure. So, while everyone else was trying to get the full story out of Silas, I followed his directions."
"What I saw will haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life. She was dead, just as he had said. That was bad enough, but it was how she was dead that was truly horrifying. She had been mutilated. I won't go into the details because I can't. The weights and pressures of a thousand ignored tragedies smothered me. I broke down. In the midst of a hazy world of suffering, Susannah had been a ray of light. Truly a testament to the enduring innocence of children, she had dared to live simply in an exceedingly complex world. That small luminosity was gone now, and I was cast into darkness.”
“I don’t remember exactly how long I spent there. It was awhile. But, after I’d once again donned the mask of strength, I noticed something out of place. She had no clothes on. A few moments of unsure thoughts ensued. Then, as everything began to come together, my fists clenched themselves in rage and my eyes burned with a vicious hatred I’d never before felt. My first impulse was anger. My second was total revulsion. I threw up the rest of my stomach’s contents, then turned back to the Compound, my movements tense and my eyes still alight with fury.”
“She’d been raped. If it’d been a zombie, at least some of her clothes would be left. Someone had found her, raped her, then mutilated her in order to make it look like it was a zombie killing. That someone was Marson. I was sure of it. That ****er was no embezzler; he was a pedophile. It had been him. He and Silas were the only two who had gone out, and Silas was no killer; he had trouble even hacking up zombies. It was Marson. It couldn’t have been anyone else.”
“I stalked up to him as the eyes of the small crowd followed me. Then I leaped at him. I yelled every foul word I could muster as I jabbed, kicked, and scratched at him. He socked me a few times in the gut, but that just furthered my resolve. It was a full two minutes before four bystanders could pull me off him, and by that point I’d already scratched a good part of his face to ribbons and given him some nasty bruises. They had such trouble with me, in fact, that somebody had to whack me across the face with a shovel to finally shut me up.”
“A couple hours later I woke up in a small, blank room of the Compound with a hefty guy named Duke watching me. He alerted someone outside that I was awake, and it wasn’t long before Carl showed up. He was understandably pissed and concerned. The few minutes I’d had of consciousness had given me insight into the situation. No one would believe me. I had less than sketchy evidence. It would never convince anyone except for Carl, and even he would be difficult. So I did exactly what I had to: I lied. I told him that Susannah’s death must have really gotten to me and that I just had a bit of a breakdown. I did my best to look pitiful and Carl bought it. And, because Carl bought it, everyone else bought it too.”
“I feel bad for using Carl’s sympathy like that, but I had no choice. Carl, despite his joking demeanor, always stuck up for me, especially since the Shelling. He hadn’t believed me back then, of course. No one had. When I started spewing out ridiculous stories of a strangling cloud and plagues from the sky, people treated me just like any other doomsayer: with apathy and distant contempt. Carl was included, but he at least still dealt with it. Everything changed a few weeks later though. The Seven Hour War started, the Shelling began, and the Mists came to pass. Everything played out exactly as my dark visions had predicted. Afterwards, people would give me short glances of awe and fear. Some people even asked me to predict something else. I just laughed in their face. I haven’t had a vision since before the Shelling, but if I don’t need one to predict the future. Humanity’s fate is pretty obvious at this point.”
“I apologized to Marson (one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done in my life), made sure not to throw up again from disgust at what I’d done, and pretended to turn in early. Its amazing what hatred, resolve, and a little adrenaline will do. I played it real smart. I waited until everyone was asleep but the sentries. It wasn’t difficult getting to him: the sentries usually stick to the balconies and ruined windowsills on the edges of the Compound. Then it was just a matter of covering his mouth and quickly dragging the sharpened blade across the smooth, soft flesh of his throat. It didn’t take long, which was a shame; I wanted him to suffer. Still, he did have about 30 seconds where he was alive and quite awake, his eyes wide and bulging as he gawked at me. The only sound was a quiet wheezing and gurgling sound as he attempted to draw in precious air, but found only the thick liquid of his own blood.”
“I’d never thought being on corpse duty would serve any purpose. It came in real handy. All I had to do was swap his clothes with another body, chuck him in a ditch and plant his face in the mud. The next morning I disposed of him just as I had countless others. It was only hours afterward that anyone got suspicious and, because I’d cleaned up the blood in his room, no one ever pointed a finger at me. It was assumed he’d wandered out into the mists and got caught unawares by a zombie. They gave him a nice Christian burial and I forced myself to show up to keep up appearances.”
“Maybe it was an awful thing to do. Maybe I’ll burn in Hell for it. But, even if I do, I wouldn’t have done it any different. That sick, perverted monster had doused the only light in my world. He had to pay for that.”
Withered hands flipped eagerly through the pages once more, hungry to find more entries of importance. Finally it stopped at one of the last.
Edited on Dec 7, 2006 7:36 pm PT
Edited 3 total times.
“Nobody could’ve seen it coming. Everyone had assumed the zombies to be like wild animals. They were highly dangerous and quite savage, but they were just stupid animals nonetheless. There was some evidence to point that they operated in packs, but never anything to indicate that they could really communicate and coordinate on a broad scale. We thought they were uncoordinated. We thought the Compound would keep us safe. We were wrong. They aren’t intelligent, but they are smart. Humans are intelligent in that we have a culture. They are smart in that they can cooperate in a fashion only seen in advanced primates.”
“I woke up as the sentries started yelling. Carl was already up and frantically trying to put together some weaponry, but most people were still sprawled, exhausted (we are always exhausted, and not just physically) over their sleeping bags or on their mattresses. I stumbled up, my head wagging back and forth in an attempt to ascertain what could be so damn important. I found out, but I immediately wished I hadn’t. Five or six windows exploded violently as dark, foreboding shapes burst into the compound. My eyes bulged in just a moment’s hesitation before I was fully awake and nearly on top of Carl to get a gun.”
“He yelled. I yelled. We all yelled. At that point it was a bit futile though, because everyone was either up or frenziedly scurrying to do so. Several more windows shattered dramatically as Carl shoved a Glock into my shaking hands. Only then did the shrieks start. See it? Only then, after they were already inside the perimeter did the shrieks start. They’d planned that. I slammed a clip into the Glock, rammed the slide back and gazed around, terrified, for something to shoot at. With all the screaming, shrieking and obscure dark shapes around, it was difficult to discern friend from foe. Somebody else didn’t think so, though, because suddenly the corner of the Compound was lit with a flickering orange glow as someone let loose with an automatic.”
“That seemed to put panic into the rest, because the whole atrium nearly came alive with gunfire as crazed people fired blindly at foes, real or imagined. It was a nightmare. Everyone’s line of fire was crossed. The guns probably ended up hitting more humans than zombies, and I supposed they planned that too. Then the doors started caving in. It was then I realized that they probably hadn’t even done much damage yet. The whole point was just to distract us as great mobs of the stupid, slow ones just strolled right up to us. I leaped onto a window sill and peered down. Dozens of them were crowded around the doorways. It was probably a good bit more, but I didn’t take the time to count.”
“My blood now began to really feel the adrenaline, and my mind sent waves of panic through every nerve. We were so screwed. In the moments that followed, I stuck close to a wall, careful not to find myself in the open. I actually plugged one through the head (through the crab?), and I might’ve gotten more, but I was too afraid I might instead be aiming at a person. Then the air around me ignited with bright flashes and the booming sound of a heavy pistol. A section of the wall just feet from me exploded, showering me with pieces of concrete and plaster.”
“STOP! STOP! FOR CHRIST SAKE STOP!” I bellowed desperately.
“A very freaked and panic-stricken Silas stumbled up to me. His face was a mess, half of it torn to shreds from a claw. His eyes, huge, unsettling orbs filled with terror, darted over me.”
“Oh, God, Paul! I-I’m sorry. I did-did-didn’t know it was you.” He stuttered.
“Have you seen Carl?” I coughed through powdered plaster. I wasn’t sure if he’d heard me through the screams and gunfire.
“N-no. I’m getting the hell out of here. I don’t know how much longer – “
“But he never got to finish. I don’t know where it had leaped from, but suddenly his face was one large, black mass of drooling crab. I blew it to pieces on impulse. Horror stricken, I yanked the wriggling hunk of dying black flesh off of him. He started to say something, but again, never finished. His eyes rolled back into his head and he began shaking in a violent seizure. I hesitated for only a moment, then put a bullet through his head. It wasn’t the first time I’d committed a mercy killing, but it never gets easier.”
“It kind of gets fuzzy after that, but I remember seeing swarms of the slow ones crowding all through the lower level. I spent a few moments taking shots at them and desperately searching for a way to get out. Then Carl was beside me, his vice grip firmly planted in my shoulder.”
“We have to get out! Now!” he hissed.
“No, ****, Sherlock!” I spat back.
He dragged me to a window, looked over it for a moment, then looked to me.
“We have to jump.”
“You crazy?!? I’d rather have all my bones intact when I get zombified, thank you.”
“Jump, you pansy!” He shouted, then shoved me through the portal and out into the mists.
My heart raced as I fell through the air. I landed on my shoulder, and pain instantly seared through every nerve ending I had on that limb. In my agony, I heard a loud thud a few feet away and assumed it to be Carl. A small grunt confirmed it and, before I knew it, I was being dragged to my feet.
“OW! CRAP! My shoulder!” I cried. I found out a few hours later it was dislocated. Carl shoved me into the mists and I took off without any more hassling. It took hours, but we eventually got to a point where we believed we were safe. I don’t know if anyone else survived, but I can’t imagine that anyone did. Without Carl’s level headedness and the good fortune of not landing on something sharp, we would have been dead. After we stopped I – “
And the book closed. For a moment, wrinkled hands only held it gingerly in an extended pause. Then the book fell into an open medicine bag. Leathery lips twisted into a contorted grin as Franklin Square’s sole visitor gathered his bag. Crisp, clear footsteps echoed through the lonely square, then ceased. Franklin Square was empty once again.
And the mists crawled.
Edited on Dec 7, 2006 7:50 pm PT
Edited 2 total times.
Well, I'm going to have read this in the morning because well. SLEEP. But dude, don't worry about the wait. I'm so happy that you were actually working on it. Even if you not doing so as much. Even you had finished, you ended the last part so perfectly. You could have just left it like that. Anyway, nice to have you back man.
I can fix the formatting if you want me to. Also, as I said before via PM, after the game guide gets a little more exposure I'll announce this next chapter on the front page also. Good to have you back.
Well, I've started the the description part. It's great stuff, don't know how well it'll fit into an actual book or short story. But because we read this like in intervals, it works so perfectly. Just a random tangent. But I guess it might work. Anyway, I made this post to tell you when copying stuff from word, copy it to notepad first, and then to GS. Just make sure word wrap isn't on, on notepad. That's what I do. gah, back to reading...
heh, just found out it's not a random tangent, but very well part of the story.
As always, almost perfect. I loved how you are making this more than just the journal story. And we don't know where exactly the person is himself. I guess that goes back to like the first thing I said, about the journal entries, so I'm really happy that you're moving away from it. But I love how you sort of have a hybrid. It works perfectly. It also let's you move away from writing "as" carl. The non-journal parts have such great desciption and a great sense of atmosphere to them. Great stuff.
Anyway, slight critisism. I've found, I can't be the greatest writer. but editing is something I'm getting better at ...
this paragraph.
:
“She’d been raped. If it’d been a zombie, at least some of her clothes would be left. Someone had found her, raped her, then mutilated her in order to make it look like it was a zombie killing. That someone was Marson. I was sure of it. That f*cker was no embezzler; he was a pedophile. It had been him. He and Silas were the only two who had gone out, and Silas was no killer; he had trouble even hacking up zombies. It was Marson. It couldn’t have been anyone else.”
>It just seems too blunt, blatant. Obvious. You set up the rest of the paragraph with suspicions on Marson, we kinda knew that it was him. You didn't have to say it to us. We kinda aldready knew, and same goes for the rape thing. and the pedophile thing. I don't know, just didn't feel it felt right. It didn't go with the rest of the story. But I can understand that this is a journal, and you can't use more common writing techniques. Since it's the place that the protagonist is putting out his feelings. I just feel it should be delivered a little better.
>oh and
:
So I did exactly what I had to: I lied. I told him that Susannah’s death must have really gotten to me and that I just had a bit of a breakdown. I did my best to look pitiful and Carl bought it. And, because Carl bought it, everyone else bought it to.”
it's supposed to be too. two o's.
>here
:
Everyone’s line of fire was crossed. The guns probably ended up hitting more humans than zombies, and I supposed they planned that too.
"and I supposE they planned that too." Your writing it in the past tense, but the charecter still thinks so.
I'm not sure how much I liked that whole bit though, I can understand like a zombie taking a grenade and running at a window when they see people on the other side. But to place a bomb or throw a grenade is a bit too much. At least from half-life zombies, since it's a fan-fiction and all.
>The parts where the charecters are talking in the journal are talking, you shouldn't use double quotes for that. maybe just '. I can understand easily from the paragraphs, but just thought I'd say. Oh yeah, on the note of the quotes. You don't close the quote after a paragraph if it continues in the next. It just opens again. Like:
:
I said "He doesn't know what he's doing
"he thinks he's a chicken in a lot of hay"
and I found it really sad about the girl, ever since you introduced her. She seemed like a special charecter. I guess becaue of the inocence thing in the whole dystopian setting.
So I'm going to be captain obvious and guess that this is the journals that he lost originally?
That gives me an idea. This could be the whole second book. Only for the sake of originsation though and understanding.
I really appreciate your criticisms, they do indeed help. I agree with almost all of what you said and, when I've got more time, I'll look through them in more detail and try to fix some things.
One thing I did want to comment on was your saying it was unreasonable for zombies to throw grenades or plant bombs. I think you misunderstood what I wrote, and I hope thats not the case with most of the readers. Looking back, I suppose my wording was a bit misleading. The zombies didn't use explosives at all. The shriek zombies simply leaped through the windows. I suppose using "exploded" and such was a bit misleading. What I meant was simply that they leaped through. The crossed lines of fire were simply when everyone in the Compound panicked and started firing. The zombies didn't use any kind of weaponry - they were simply far more coordinated than anyone would have thought.
ooooh....well that makes a ton of sense. Yeah, that works perfectly, because I think I went through that exact thought process sometime during my thought process.
ok......what is this whole thing about....not the text in this topic......overall....y are you doing this?? not saying its wierd, go right ahead........good to see someone conjuring up something worth reading.......
first off, this has to be one of the best fan-fics i have ever read. also, you have a real talent for conveying emotion in your writing, especially with the part about the little girl. that's some heavy stuff keep up the good work
ok......what is this whole thing about....not the text in this topic......overall....y are you doing this?? not saying its wierd, go right ahead........good to see someone conjuring up something worth reading.......
It sounds like you haven't read the other chapters. You can find them in the Features section of the union.
ok......what is this whole thing about....not the text in this topic......overall....y are you doing this?? not saying its wierd, go right ahead........good to see someone conjuring up something worth reading.......
It sounds like you haven't read the other chapters. You can find them in the Features section of the union.
And by the way you have to navigate from the front page of the union. Or the main thread at the forums.
Glad to see you continuing this awesome fan fiction. Good read, it provived good backstory on the characters and what happened before the events in the previous chapters of LitM.
I finally just got around to reading this chapter, and it's amazing work as usual! I have one question though. This older guy that seems to be similar to the G-Man...Do you have a pre-planned story for him? I mean because we don't even actually know who the G-Man is yet, and I don't think it would be right to assume things if this guy is actually working for the same employers as the G-Man. Would you be delaying definite answers to who he is until after we find out more about who the G-Man is?
Also, SMK is making me some banners for this and the rest of the chapters, and I'll have it up on the front page as soon as I can.
I'm glad you finished it though, Sent please fix the formatting. 
keep up the good work
